


In Lieu

by takidaka



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baking, Christmas Fluff, Declarations Of Love, Lots of Scones, M/M, Presents, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takidaka/pseuds/takidaka
Summary: Christmastime's here, they’re queer, and both so dear. A holiday fanfic featuring angsty boys and cute presents.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! I know what you're thinking: why in the world is she posting a Christmas fanfic in the middle of July? Originally, I wrote this during the actual holiday season of 2015--so it's a little old--and I just wanted to cross post it here so that all my stuff would be together. 
> 
> Regardless of the season. . . I hope you enjoy! ;)

**Chapter 1: SIMON**

“Hey.”

A pause.

“Wake up, love.”

I roll my head to rest on my other shoulder, frowning at the familiar voice.

“Aliester Crowley, Snow.” A hand touches my cheek. Lukewarm. “You’re not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

_Baz._

I peer through cracked eyelids to find him hanging over me, one arm propping him up on the head of the chair, the other smoothing my cheek. He frowns, though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Who needs sleep when you’re around?” I yawn, half-smiling and leaning into his touch.

He lightly smacks my arm. “Sure.”

“I’m serious. How do I know you’re not going to try to Turn me?”

“Because I like them fresh, my dear. You’re old and stale.”

“Like your sense of humor.”

He lowers himself down, grinning as he nears my neck. “Exactly. And your complexion is too nice to ruin with pallor.”

“Easy, breezy, beautiful. Coversnow.”

“Uh-huh.” He kisses his favorite freckle–the one right beneath my ear–and stands up straight. “Anyway. What were you doing so late that you fell asleep?”

I stretch my arms out before me. One of my wings pops out from behind my back and nearly smacks him in the face.

“Shit, Snow–”

“Sorry.” I smirk, folding it back into place. “Always forget about those. But I was finishing the last part of you and Penelope’s Christmas present.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“Not telling.”

Baz sneers at me. “Says the boy who actually tells me about every shit he’s ever taken– _and_ in full detail.”

“Exactly.” I laugh, stand, and lean over. “Because it’s not shit. Now kiss me good morning.”

Though he pretends to look disgusted, he bends towards me, shaking his head; before I can reach, though, he stops and pulls slightly away.

“Snow?”

“Hm?”

“What am I smelling on you?”

“My sultry juices. Duh.”

“No.”

“More like day-old cinnamon streusel that’s been left uncovered on the counter, if I’m going to be honest–”

His eyes narrow into needles, gaze sharp and pointed. “Simon.”

“Fine, Baz,” I sigh. “It’s, well… a cigarette. One of yours.”

One of his eyebrows lifts, unimpressed. “My dear, I have long made the acquaintance of both heavy and light smokers, and I can tell you for a fact that a stench of that magnitude is not created by just one.” He steps closer, pushing me back against my chair. “How many did you blow through?”

“A pack or two.”

“Or two?”

“Or three.”

“Simon–”

“Baz, you don’t _get_ it,” I interject, exasperated. “I don’t smell like _it_ anymore. I don’t smell like fire or stone or smoke or _any_ of those good things–”

“Simon, you smell like _life._ Like you’ve always meant to have and deserve. Like your mother and Bunce and I _want_ you to have. Smoking is not going to do anything but ruin that.”

“No, _magic_ is life, and I don’t have any.” I run my hand over the back of my neck. “I don’t want a life without it. And smoking is relaxing.”

“You know, many other things are relaxing and not catastrophically self-destructive.”

“Like what? Yoga? Do they even have yoga for half-dragon post-adolescent boys with a death wish?”

After a long moment of staring at me, Baz sighs, seemingly spent, and leans his hips back against the desk. I stare at his knees, slender and strong beneath his old flannel pajamas. My old pajamas, really. He’s always stealing my clothes.

But now I notice that he’s gone quiet.

“A death wish, huh?” He eventually asks.

I glance up. His eyes have gone soft, sad.

“I…” I start, rubbing my neck. “I don’t know, Baz. It just _hurts._ All the time. Like a part of me is empty and hollow and isn’t filled with anything but nothing.”

Baz nods slowly. “I understand what you mean.”

“Do you?”

And I meet his eyes and realize, once again, that I am talking to the boy who understands almost everything about being miserable.

Then I feel my chest go soft. I’m officially as sad as Baz. Probably even sadder. I could be an Adele album.

“Baz…”

“I _know,_ Simon.” He speaks gently, in hushed tones. Like the feeling is untranslatable. “But, Simon, though I know it’s redundant of me to say this, you don’t _need_ magic. And I know you love it, and it was as much a part of you as it is of me. But I’m _sorry,_ love.” Baz bites his lip, one fang threatening to poke into his soft skin. “Still, you’re not any lesser without it.”

“Yeah.” I snort. “Okay.”

“No, it’s true. Look at yourself.” He gently takes my hands in his own, letting them hang down the way streamers bow from a ceiling. “You’re _beautiful._ Even without the power and the explosions and the constant possibility of death.”

I look up at him, annoyed, though at what I’m not exactly sure. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m absolutely not. You know, just because Venus de Milo doesn’t have arms doesn’t mean she’s not one of the most beautiful creations of all time.”

“Yeah, well, she was made by Michelangelo or whoever that knew what he was doing.”

“Alexandros de Antioch, first off, and I’m almost positive he wasn’t planning on hacking off her limbs.” His fingers clasp around mine. “And it’s the same with you. You were made by a mother who loved you and a father… Yeah, well. He was out there. But he still meant the best.”

I don’t respond, letting my thumbs unconsciously graze the smooth skin on his wrists. His gaze trails from my face down to our intertwined hands, little strands of hair falling in his face, mussed and unkempt from the pillows. I don’t think anyone else has ever seen Baz look like this.

Real, I mean. Human. Sometimes I think he makes himself look like a vampire just to keep appearances. To remind me that he’s dead and lacks life and is still wonderful without it.

He’s so right. He’s _always_ right. It pisses me the hell off. It makes me so angry, I want to push him down on the couch, the nice cedar-scented one facing the window, the one we stole from his bedroom and have spent hours lying on while kissing, and let myself tear into his smugly-lovely face.

So I move forward and take his lips with my own, hands quickly moving up and around his body, beneath his shirt, skimming fingers under the elastic on his boxers. And he lets me–he drops, like always, swooning beneath me, letting me run my fingers through his long hair, pretending to fight back and giving up and holding my face like it’s precious.

If I could do this–touch him, hold him, _have_ him all the minutes of the day, pressing back against my bones–I don’t think I’d have to smoke.

But then I’d be used to the way his hands send shivers up my spine, like this, when he’s running them across my bare skin, like this, fingernails trailing and skirting and tickling, like this, and the feeling I get when he’s pressing himself against me. Fire. Strength. Power. Like we could stand together through anything, at moments like these, when I’m holding his waist and our hips are touching as our lips collide together.

I can’t lose _this._

I pull away after a minute. We stand, breathless, hovering, watching.

I murmur, “You’re still full of shit.”

“Oh, I know. And so are you.”

I offer a sly smile and shake my head. “Asshole.”

“You would know,” he grins. Then he yawns and tilts forward, sleepily, resting his head on my shoulder.

“You smell fucking awful,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“And you look tired.”

“I’m always tired. How did you sleep?” I ask, looking over at his eyes. Piercing. Elegant. Full of intelligence and shining like the moon.

A faint smile crowns his pinked lips. “Okay. Would’ve been better with you there, though.”

“Night terrors?”

“One or two.”

“I see.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just those fucking numpties again,” Baz responds with a tinge of sarcasm. He still looks at me, a peculiar expression on his face. “And you?”

I shake my head. “I just try not to think about it.”

“Mm.” He brings my face into his cold hands and kisses my forehead. It feels like sunlight. “Anyway. Let’s get on with our day, I guess. You need to take a bath.”

“You can take one with me.”

“I could.”

“Make sure I smell decent in public.”

“I’d rub the stink right off of you.”

So I take his hand and start walking down the hall. Baz begins mumbling under his breath as we stroll along, socked feet padding across the floor–“Blimey, Snow, can you walk any louder? Like a fucking horse, I swear– _clop, clop, clop._ That’s you. Wait, Simon, where is Bunce? Did she even come home last night? Is she going to walk in on accident?”

“Who cares?”

He considers. “Well… Yeah. Good point. But, you know, she might–”

We’re at the end of the way when I spin around and face him, slamming his babbling mouth shut with my own. Baz is surprised at first and falters backwards, but quickly gains his footing and starts pressing back against me. He’s got my shirt on the floor and tail wrapped around his wrist when I pull back.

“Wait, wait, wait. Baz.”

He looks hungry, about to pounce. “You’re not seriously about to ask me how double-dipping works _again,_ are you?”

“Not yet. But do you have any extra smokes? I’m out.”

He sighs and hastily grabs one out of the carton in his pocket, offering it with tense fingers. “Snow, let me tell you something. You know why I started smoking?”

“Because you’re a badass?” I say, taking it from him.

“Partly. And partly because I had a death wish. But mostly because they smelled like you, and they were the closest thing I had to having you or life or a reason for being for a long, long time.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His eyes pass over my face. “And let me say this: it’s not going to be anything close to the real thing simply because it isn’t the real thing. You just have to learn to live with the gap.”

“But you didn’t have to.”

Baz smiles benevolently, and it’s one of those rare moments when I think he could stop wars and part waters. Deadly as he looks right now. “But I _did.”_

I sigh. He steps forward and wraps his arms around my bare waist.

“It’ll be okay, Simon.”

“How do you know?”

“Vampire’s intuition.”

He plucks and tosses the unlit cigarette from my fingers. I smile weakly. He looks at me.

“I still have you, don’t I?” Baz asks.

“For the time being.”

He grimaces and shakes his head.

But he’s right. I still have this. This, this, _this._

I lean forward on my toes and kiss him, imagining the scent of honey. The color of peaches. The sound of chiming bells.

For a long moment Baz is motionless against me.

Then he grins and grabs my ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: BAZ**

Half a year later and he’s still broken.

I really can’t blame him. If I were stripped of my magic, given I was still a vampire afterwards, I’d probably would’ve ended my life long ago. Nothing can quite replace that feeling soaring through your veins, especially when all the life has already been sucked out of them.

That’s also speaking as if he and I had never gotten together, though. I don’t know what I’d do in that case, to be honest.

But I had hoped, at least, that Simon would’ve started picking up the pieces by now. Instead, he’s just left them in the middle of the floor to cut his feet on. I wish I could be the metaphorical broom that would sweep it all away.

Especially on days like this, when we’re out and about, together, just being free. We do it much more often since graduation, and it’s been nothing but good. Heartache aside, anyway. He’s happy as I’ve seen him in a while, eagerly peering into sparkling shops and stores all twinkling with the effects of the holiday season. I almost can’t smell the smoke on him anymore. (Granted, I forced him to take a bath this morning and basically sterilized his skin. Among other things.)

Anyway. At the moment we’re strolling through the Cater-Corner: a long, popular street about an hour north of Watford, where many of the richer families come to buy designer gifts. (Speaking of designer: I just bought new robes. Handmade Diana Wynne Jones, thank you.) And while I pop up here fairly often to run errands, this is Snow’s first time even seeing a street of this size or grandeur, so he’s both occupied and overwhelmed. It also doesn’t help that everybody in the living wizard world knows about our relationship by now–especially those who know me personally–and their eyes widen as they see us walking along snowy banks, hand-in-hand.

More particularly, though, I think they’re surprised that they don’t feel much of anything from Simon Snow anymore. I haven’t told him that, though. But the hand-holding also factors in.

“Baz, what’s that?” He asks, pointing at an outlet store made of chiseled marble.

“It’s a shoe store.”

“That doesn’t look like a shoe store.”

“Just what do you suppose it is, then?”

“It looks like a bank or something. I don’t know.”

“What, Wells Fargo makes shoes now?”

“More like Gringotts. I mean, _look_ at the fabric on those. Bloody hell. Are those made of silver?”

“No, platinum. They’re Seven-League Boots.”

“And those have to be made of extremely precious metals?”

“Touché,” I reply, suppressing a smile.

Grinning, he shakes his golden head. He’s got my forest green jumper on underneath his black peacoat, paired with dark denim trousers, gloves, and a colorful scarf around his neck. And he’s not aware of it, but I’ve been mumbling spells to wrap small lights around his tail. He has no idea that he’s essentially a walking Christmas tree.

But for someone with a wintry name, he’s not very fond of the cold, and it shows in the way that he’s pressed against my side as we walk, clasping my hand like a moth to a lamp. Even though I bought him the thickest, wooliest peacoat I could find. (I basically scalped a sheep, no less.) Still, it’s nice to have him so close to me. My own dark red attire contrasts nicely with his.

“Dear Merlin, _look at this!”_ Snow exclaims suddenly, fluttering over to the window. As he pulls me along, I glance up and see a large wooden sign hanging down, scrawled upon with the title _Bouncing Boffin’s Magickal Bakery._

“Look at those, Baz! Look at them! _Look at all the different kinds!!”_

I follow his pointed finger through the window. Dozens of scones, all different colors, line the inside of a baker’s counter. Simon’s nose and hands are pressed up against the glass, eagerly, like a puppy waiting to be fed.

Sighing–and really struggling to hide my smile–I take his wrist and pull him away. “One of these days, Snow, you’re going to get fat.”

“So what? Are you gonna stop liking me?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t _like_ you now,” I say, trying to distract him from the window. I imagine him with chubby cheeks, a red nose, a pudgier stomach. Never again the skeleton that walked into Watford every year on the first day of term.

I curse myself for feeding this morning, because I can feel the warm blood rising in my cheeks. He’s made me so soft. “And I will never _stop_ disliking you, Simon.”

Before he has time to think about what I said, I push open the large doors to the bakery and pull him inside.

It’s as if I’ve let loose a bull in a china shop.

The boy tears away from me and charges towards the glass counter, asking to sample flavor after flavor. The exasperated counter lady struggles to keep up with his eagerness from the very start, and she runs to Simon’s every whim and command without much rhyme or reason.

“Ma'am, what’s in that one? The purple one?”

“Oh, that’s lavender and honey, dear–”

“Is that raspberry?” He asks incredulously.

“Yes, it’s–”

“My _goodness,_ you have apple cinnamon! And what about lemon–is that _butterscotch?”_

The other customers, previously enjoying the smooth, peaceful atmosphere of the bakery, sit staring at Simon and his flailing hands. A few people step into the shop behind us, see his exuberance, and quietly retreat back outside. Meanwhile, I wait at the cash register, trying not to laugh as he indecisively starts to make his choices.

“Baz,” he suddenly says, turning to me.

“Yes, love?”

“How many can I get?”

I stare into his eager eyes for a few moments before I break into a snigger. I can’t help myself. “I’m limiting you at two of each flavor.”

The grin that crosses his face is enough to melt steel. He begins pointing this way and that, speaking in loud flows and cadences, thoroughly overwhelming the poor bakery lady. She starts to feel so swamped that she calls another employee to help, a young man who almost too flabbergasted by the presence of Simon to reasonably assist her with his order.

“Is he yours?” I hear behind me at some point amidst the chaos. The voice is familiar; rough but rich, like an uncut gem. It’s almost as if I’m hearing Christian Bale speak through unsweetened chocolate.

Unable to pin the timbre down, I turn and find myself face-to-face with none other than Nicodemus.

I frown quite violently, stretching the still-cold skin on my cheeks. My fingers clench at my sides. _“Ugh._ By Morgana, what do _you_ want?”

“Easy there, killer,” he grunts, holding both hands up in front of him. “I’m just saying, you may want to control your boy there. It’s not unlike people in this area to report peculiarities.”

I’m still grimacing at him when I respond. “They’re in the presence of Simon Snow and Basilton Pitch. Peculiarities are unavoidable. I’m just glad he’s focused on something that makes him cheery. And I’ll be _quite_ unhappy if you or anyone else does anything to disrupt that.”

“Fair enough,” Nicodemus shrugs. “But, anyway, I’ve got some news that may interest you. I’ve heard that you’ve been poking around here and there for some information.”

“Info?”

“Immortality and all that.”

“And how do you know that?” I ask suspiciously, scrutinizing his face.

“You think there aren’t vampires lurking around be British Museum watching you throw the _Twilight_ series into your bag? And to think that you graduated at the top of your class.”

My grimace grows more severe.

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles, brushing thin air off of his jacket. “Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. Anyway. I think it’s right time you know that no, vampires are not immortal. Why else would you still be growing and aging like a normal human boy?”

“How do you know?”

“Tell me, have you ever seen an extremely old vampire?”

“Not besides you.”

He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Bloody hell, Pitch, I’m trying to do you a favor–”

“What exactly did you expect ? Sunshine and rainbows coming out of my ass at the sight of you? And why are you telling me this?”

Nicodemus’s eyes fall to my knees, then further to the floor. “A few reasons, to be honest. Most importantly because you and Goldilocks of the Scones fought for my sister until the very end.”

I blink, taken a bit aback. “Well… We didn’t really fight for _her.”_

“But you fought _closer_ than anyone else. Including myself,” he says firmly. “That’s all I have to say about that. I’ve overstayed my invitation. I’m done following you two around, so I’ll be on my way after this.” Nicodemus then pulls a small bottle out of the pocket on his coat. It’s clear glass, round and sharp, surrounded with tendrils of glass twisted into a shape that catches the sunlight of the windows.

Or, rather, the light that’s coming from within the bottle.

“Here,” he finally says, handing the object to me. “My final thanks. From what I hear, your boy over there may find this quite useful.”

“What is it?” I ask, cautiously taking the bottle from his calloused hands.

“It’s a special type of vial made out of some sort of alchemist’s crystal.” He gestures to my hand. “It collects magic in small doses from the atmosphere. Kind of the way the Humdrum did, except without deathly catastrophic results because it has a sort of limit. They used to be common in the old days when children had trouble gathering enough magic to complete certain spells. Now, Snow can pull the cork out and use whatever little spell comes to his mind, regardless of his lacking.”

I’m confounded to the point of almost dropping the piece. “Really?”

Nicodemus lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “No, I’m just fucking with you. That’s my sole purpose in life, Baz, to mess with your head.” He frowns. “In all honesty, though, unless you’re trying to shoot down the moon, I don’t know of much of any spells it can’t perform. I’ve been using it since I lost my wand.”

I’m still staring at him, I realize, when I pull my slacking jaw back up into place.

“Yeah. So. Merry Christmas and Kwanzaa and all that, I suppose. See you around.” And then he roughly clasps my shoulder, nods, and turns right back out the door. “Thanks again, kid.”

I stare at his figure until he turns the street corner and vanishes. Then I peer down at the small bottle, not even big enough to be the length of my thumb. 

The relic that can bring Simon Snow’s magic back.

“Baz!” Simon calls close behind me.

I jump in surprise and nearly drop the bottle, but fumble to catch and hide it in my pocket before he can see. “Simon?”

He’s grinning ear-to-ear when I turn around, holding a massive box of scones to his chest. “You’re not planning on lunch still, are you? Because I’ve already eaten six of these.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s fine. I’m not all that hungry, anyway.”

“I guess you could call it killing two birds with one scone.” Snow stifles a guffaw.

Glaring at him, I smack his shoulder. “Don’t even _start,_ Simon.”

He just laughs, smiles, and leads me out the door, happy as a kid on Christmas morning. Absolutely oblivious to the world around him.

 

Later, we’re walking down the street again, this time with a box holding around three dozen scones–give or take the half that’s been eaten by the boy that’s been ceaselessly munching on them.

“Hey, Baz.” He’s following behind me, grasping the hem of my jacket, speaking through a bite of bread.

I turn and raise my eyebrows at him. “Hm?”

“Were you telling me that you love me?”

_“Huh?”_

“You know. Before we went in the bakery.”

I take a large breath to recollect my words. “Well, I-I don’t know. Was I?”

“Baz–”

Annoyed, I shoot him a look. “You tell me, Mr. My-Name-Is-Simon-Snow-and-I-Can’t-Handle-Weather-Colder-Than-Boiling. We might as well call you Lavaboy the Weak.”

“You mean ‘Loverboy’?” He asks, smirking.

Grimacing, I say, “You really have to stop these awful puns. I’m going to physically assault you. Besides, I know what I said. If you can’t decipher simple English yourself, maybe we should send you back to elementary school.”

I hear a snort behind me. One of his warm hands takes mine.

When I glance back at him and see his dorky grin, I feel fire in my stomach. Again. Every time. He’s going to burn out my insides at this rate.

I don’t care. For him, I’d fall into the sun.

“Where else are we going?” Snow asks through a mouthful of a differently-flavored pastry.

“I dunno. I figured we could just shop around and look for Christmas presents for everyone.”

“Sounds good to me.” He squeezes my fingers. “Can we go play with the Seven-League Boots Penelope’s been talking about? The ones not cast out of platinum?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I hear his laugh, and then feel him kiss the top of my hand. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You make me really happy.”

“I ought to,” I reply, feeling myself smile despite my best efforts. “I’m an absolute pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: SIMON**

I ate that entire box of scones in about three hours’ time, and still had room left over for dinner. Surprisingly, though, Baz didn’t make fun of me much for it afterwards, and he’s been pretty lenient on the snark and commentary lately. 

Granted, that’s probably only because he’s been gone for the past few days. His professor had a work-study project up in Canada over the effects of the Aurora Borealis on magic users, and he asked Baz to spend a few days up there with him to help him gather information. 

Baz was beyond excited–for Baz, anyway. Though he wasn’t hopping about the room and setting off fireworks, he spend a lot of time playing Vivaldi’s “Summer” movement on his violin, and kissed the crown of my head a lot more often. 

It’s nice to see him happy like that.

And I’d say that I’m sad without him being here, but it’s honestly been nice to be able to work on his present without worrying about where he is or what he’s doing. It’s not to say that he disregards my privacy, but I still worry that he’ll see something that’ll give it all away. 

But not anymore. Even better is the fact that I have full reign to decorate the apartment however I wish. Baz didn’t want to bother with a tree, much less everything else, so I’ve been saving up money to buy lights and ornaments and everything, and I finally bought it all yesterday after he left. On top of that, Penelope’s come back home today to help me put it up before Baz gets back this weekend.

And speaking of whom–

“Penny,” I call. “I need your guidance.”

She’s hanging a strand of gold lights around the window with thumb tacks. “What is it, Simon?”

“What are these?” I show her a handful of fuzzy, sparkly strings, which look like cheap boas without feathers. She brought them from her family’s garage, along with some extra lights, and there are a few more boxes around that are stuffed full of them. 

Penelope sees me struggling to manage the stuff in my hands and laughs. “That’s tinsel, Simon. You wrap it around the tree.”

“Oh. How?”

“Like this,” she says, taking the end out of my hand and walking it around the white Christmas tree. (I picked the white because Baz likes the way it looks against other colors.)

When she’s done mere seconds later, I’m in awe. The bright red sparkles against the leaves, and mirrors small sparkles in the leaves. Needles. What-have-you. Regardless, whole picture looks like a warm, blood-rich fire sauntering against an iceberg. 

When Penny sees my gaping jaw, she starts laughing. “Haven’t you ever seen tinsel before?”

“No,” I say. “The only other Christmas trees I’ve seen were at Agatha’s house, and they used strands of popcorn or whatever.”

“Oh. Do you like it?” She asks. 

“Yes,” I say emphatically. “It looks really pretty.” 

“Do you want more?”

I look her dead in the eyes. “Yes.”

She smiles happily. “Okay. Here. I’ll pull it out of the boxes if you want to put it on.”

“Thanks, Penny. I owe you one.”

“You says that, Simon Snow, but in all truth, I owe you a million more.” And she winks before she pulls her scarf around her neck and heads out the front door.

As she does that, I reach into one of the bags of decorations I bought and crack open a tube of brand-new plastic ornaments. I’ve been really excited to hang these in particular; I’ve never had any of my own, not to mention in my favorite colors. The sunshine golds and sky blues against the pure white branches make me think of the mornings I spent watching Baz play football back in Watford, right after the new semester started, and the frost hadn’t fled the grounds yet.

I’m smiling to myself as Penny walks back in, a good-sized box propped up on her shoulder.

She looks at me curiously. “You’re awful excited about those ornaments, aren’t you?”

“That, and other things,” I reply, humming to myself as I hang the first one on a branch.

Penelope laughs behind me; nowadays, her giggles sound like chiming bells. “Other things?”

“You know. The usual. Christmas. Food. Baz.”

“Ah. The young mister Pitch. How’s he doing in Canada? Enjoying any Tim Horton’s?” She asks, pulling apart the folded flaps on a cardboard box. When it pops open, dozens of multicolored strands of tinsel dance onto the floor, and I move to help her pick them up.

“He’s enjoying it, he said. Though it’s rather cold, even for him.”

“I can imagine. I hear that some wizards have figured out ways to use the icicles there as wands, they’re so sharp.”

I give her a wary glance. Penny shakes her head. “Simon, I think Baz is smart enough not to play with icicles.”

“You say that, but he regularly plays with fire,” I laugh, trading an ornament for a green line of tinsel. “He’s a fucking pyro. Regardless. I think he’s having a good go at it, though. He said he’d bring me something back from a bakery.”

When I glance over at her, I see her winding fake ivy across the fireplace. “That’s good. What did you get him for Christmas?”

“Nothing, so far.”

“What are you planning on getting him?” She asks curiously.

I bite my lip. “Honestly? Nothing. I’m making him something.”

“Making him something?”

“Yeah.”

Penny turns and offers a smile. “Something tells me that Basilton Pitch has never owned a handmade gift in his life.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” she answers, shaking her head. “Coming from you, I think he’ll really like it.”

“Hmm,” I vocalize, tapering the tinsel off around the back.

“What is it?”

“That’s what I’m not sure of.”

“What is?”

“That he’ll like it.” I murmur. “I never quite know with him.”

“You do, too. He’s just always going to pretend you don’t.” Penelope suggests. Now she’s hanging two empty red stockings from their snowflake holders.

I make a small noise. She turns and meets my eyes. “That’s another thing, Penny. I don’t know if he’s always going to pretend like that. I don’t understand why he does it. Even around me.”

“Really?” She asks quietly.

“Yeah.” I scratch my neck. “And it makes me worried. I tell him about all sorts of things—hell, he’s had to put up with my bitching and moaning about losing my magic for months now. But whenever I ask about him or how he’s doing, he just changes the subject.”

Penny’s silent for a few minutes, the way she sometimes gets when she’s deep in thought. I turn back to the half-decorated tree and start hanging my little ornaments again, being careful to alternate the colors.

“Simon.”

“Yes?”

She walks over to me and sighs. “I’m going to be honest with you: I’m no psychologist, nor am I probably ever going to be one.”

“You’re close enough.”

A small smile brightens her cheeks. “Thanks. But the main reason why he does it, I think, is because he might have some trust issues.”

“Really?” I ask in disbelief. “Trust issues, of all things?”

“Just listen,” she prompts. “Let’s look at the big picture here, all right? He’s the only child of a wealthy wizard family and his late wife. He saw his mother die in flames, right after she was bitten by a vampire, and right before he was bitten himself. He spent essentially all of his time at Watford in the closet, obsessed with and overshadowed by you, having to rely on himself to survive and not to mention competing with me to stay at the top of his class. Then he goes and almost sets himself on fire, only to be ‘rescued’ by you, who was both his worst nightmare and the one he never dreamed he’d even get to touch.”

I blink at her. “And?”

“Think about it, Simon. Baz has basically spent the past decade of his life misunderstood by almost everyone who has ever known him.” She shrugs. “He’s never had anyone around that was willing or able to understand him. It’s only natural that he’s developed such a strong sense of self-preservation.”

After a moment, I take a seat on the couch. “You’re really sure you’re not a psychologist?”

“As far as I know,” she says, adjusting the sleeves on her violet sweater, “I’m just a little more perceptive than most.”

“I’ll say.” I look up at her and swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I feel like you’re the living record of Freud’s theories.”

Penny laughs and begins untangling lights from another box she brought in earlier. “It’s only a guess, keep in mind. But, you know, I really do think he’ll love anything you get him, Simon. He may seem hard to please, but you’re the person who pleases him most.” She raises her eyebrows. “Even if he’s not ready to say it just yet.”

“So what are you suggesting I do?”

“Make him something from the heart,” she says. I hold my arm out to her so she can wind the unknotted lights into a coil. “If you can really show him that you can and want to understand him, I think he’ll start to come around.”

“You really think so?”

“I hope so.” And with that, she finishes wrapping the lights around my arm and smiles. “Now, stand up. We’re going to light this place like a smoke shop on New Year’s Eve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: BAZ**

Ever since I got home the other night, I’ve been presented with two things in endless abundance: sweets that Simon’s been attempting to make (some fantastic, some less than swell), and an endless number of decorations that seem to keep appearing throughout the apartment. I can tell that Bunce has had something to do with it; half of the decorations reek of manufacturing plants and department stores Simon loves picking through, and the other half smell of her family’s aura of spices and dark blood.

It’s honestly kind of nice. The mood and all that. Snow was overwhelmingly excited when I first got home, when he swung open the door and walked me through his eagerly-created winter wonderland. For the entire night he was full of smiles and little anecdotes about where he found all his decorations, and how he found out their various uses, and how Penelope helped him put them up without any magic.

That’s not so much the case right now, however. Simon’s in the kitchen making toffee for the first time ever. (Because someone told him that it’s made of butter.) He’s been at it for the past two hours, trying and retrying, burning pan after pan of candy because he hasn’t quite gotten it right. 

This is one of those things about him that I really admire. Though it sometimes works against his benefit, the boy never gives up on anything once he’s set his mind to doing it. Like when he tries to convince me to summon Paula Deen, or the way he still tries to get me to spill my heart and soul to him. Like the other night, for example, when he was laying across my legs as I was reading and he started talking. . .

“Baz.”

“Simon.”

“Are you scared of anything?”

“Only sunlight. It makes me sparkle.”

“Baz, I’m serious–”

“I’m _being_ serious, Snow. I fear that I’ll walk outside and shimmer like a RuPaul runway.”

He fidgeted around in my lap–on purpose–and frowned up at me. “Not even snakes? Slenderman wandering through your woods?”

“Simon Snow, just why are you suddenly curious about my biggest fears? Does this have something to do with my Christmas present?”

“No.” He took my hand. “I was just wondering. Penelope always tells me how she and Micah have all these deep talks and whatnot, and I was wondering why we never do.”

“Well, since when did you and I turn into Bunce and her American bloke?” I asked sarcastically, turning to the next page in my book. “I thought we were just fine mutually existing with each other’s hollow selves.”

“But _I_ don’t want that.”

“Well, this is a relationship, Simon. You don’t always get everything you want.”

Snow growled and sat up. “I’m going to crack you one of these days, Baz,” he declared. “You just wait.”

“What is there to crack?” I smirked. 

“Oh, I’ll find out.” And he leaned over to peck my cheek before walking back into the kitchen. “Asshole.”

 

I’m really hoping he’s forgotten about that. I don’t want to get into it right now, when it’s Christmas and we’re happy together. This is all I want. Let’s talk about my issues some other time when my boyfriend isn’t constantly refilling my mug with hot chocolate, or when I’m not in the middle of _The Perks of Being a Wallflower,_ or when I’m not thinking of how much Simon would love to see the Aurora Borealis lights one night when I’ve saved up the money.

And if he _does_ remember that conversation, I hope it’s at least distracted him–he hasn’t been as down in the dumps about losing his magic lately, ever since we went shopping that day in the Cater-Corner. Perhaps he’s finally starting to move on; perhaps he’s merely put his grief on the back burner for a while the same way he’s seemed to have put the toffee on the back burner. 

The back counter. Sink. Whatever. Regardless, when I look over, I notice that he’s very frustrated, has shut off the oven, and is making quite a noisy bit of racket in the kitchen as he pours another failed batch down the sink.

I raise an eyebrow, close my book, and watch him. “You okay, Snow?”

“I’m angry.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t,” he mutters, scraping out the pot. 

“Can’t what?” I ask. 

“Can’t do _anything!”_ He throws the pot and spoon down into the sink, and it clatters to a stop. “I can’t _function_ like a normal fucking person, magic or otherwise, and I can’t even make _candy_ out of butter and sugar! _How bloody hard is it supposed to be?_ I swear to _Merlin!”_ Simon slams his fists on the counter and roars before stomping off to the back rooms, growling under his breath. 

I hear a door slam as I stand up and walk over to the sink. A golden-brown goo thickly coats the steel, smelling so sweet my stomach practically hurts just standing near it, and I can already imaging it hardening in the pipes. 

So much for learning to live with the gap, I guess.

“Simon, you almost had it,” I call to him. “You only overcooked it by a little.”

No answer follows. After I scrub the concoction off the metal and clean the pipes with some soap and boiling water, I quietly pad down the hallway and open the door to his study. 

I find him sitting at his desk again, arms folded in front of him, pressing his forehead against the wood. 

“Simon?” I ask. 

I hear a muffled noise in response. 

Dozens of papers are crumpled up all around the room–normally I’d nag him about it being messy, but I realize that there are several that aren’t crumpled, and they’re all filed neatly in a folder laying beneath his lowered head. He seems to be guarding them, or maybe just forgot they were there.

I step over to him and set my hand on his shoulder. “Simon, you were really close with the toffee.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You could’ve still made the candy with it like that.”

He shakes his head, rustling a few of the papers beneath him. “Whatever.”

I crouch beside him—still bringing me to his shoulder height–and touch his forehead. “Come on, love.”

Snow turns his face against his arm so he can look at me. His eyes are angry red and hot with tears. “What?”

“Pick your head up. So you were a little off on the toffee. Big deal.”

“It’s not just the toffee. It's _everything.”_

“Is it, now?”

_“Yes.”_

I stifle a smile. I’m really very concerned about him, but he looks cute even when he’s upset. His eyes grow wide like a child’s, and his face is flushed, and he gets awkward and adorably stubborn. “What do you mean by everything, then?” I ask. 

“I can’t cook, clean, study, I can hardly work without screwing _something_ up, I’m _not_ smart, and I’m _really_ trying to finish your present but I don’t think I’ll have it done by Christmas–”

“It doesn’t have to be done right on time, Simon–”

“Yes, it _does,”_ he retorts, whining a little. “Because you’re bloody perfect and you deserve a perfect present, and I’m worried about you, and I’m scared that we’re going to always be like _this—“_

I scoff. “Simon, you and I both know that I am definitely not perfect.”

“Yes, you are—“

“No, I’m not. And if you’re going to look at it that way, you’re perfect, too.”

“Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because we match, remember?”

Snow loudly groans and falls back against his chair, staring up at the ceiling. “God in heaven, Baz—“

“Anyway, anyway,” I concur, waving my hand, “what’s all this nonsense about you worrying about us?”

“It’s just,” he stammers, “you know, you just—“

“Use your words, Simon.”

“You never _tell_ me anything, Baz,” Simon exhales. “You never unload on me or tell me how you’re feeling without it coming through some sort of filter, and I’m worried that you don’t tell me when things are upsetting you, and I’m worried that we’re never going to be close like I want us to be.“

I blink at him several times.

He runs his hands forcefully though his hair. “And I’m worried that you won’t like your present.”

“Of course I’ll like your present, Simon–”

“But how do you know?” He asks, wiping his cheeks. _“I_ don’t even know. And I always feel so guilty, because you can read me like an open book, so I’m always blubbering and crying around you, but I _can’t_ read you like that, and I feel like I’m not giving enough back.”

Merlin and Morgana above, keep me from smothering this boy to death with kisses.

“Simon,” I try to respond, “I just _can’t—“_

“I know, Baz, but it’s really hard for me to feel okay when I’m always taking and you’re never letting me give.” He sighs and leans back against his chair. “I _want_ to do that with you. Because that’s what it’s all about, you know? Sharing and everything.”

He looks down at me, and after a few seconds of eye contact I finally let my knees give way and sit down on his floor. I know I should say something, but I have no idea in the world what it could be, and I stare at him with my mouth gaping, my mind grasping for words.

“Baz,” Simon eventually murmurs. His hand trails down, reaching for mine, and I take it, closing my fingers tightly around his.

And so we sit for a long time, looking at our perfectly mismatched hands, searching for answers among the questions of butter and sugar that hang stickily in the air.

Eventually, (probably a good thirty minutes later), I rise to my feet, brush the backside of my pants off, and lean over to press a kiss into the top of his head. “Come on, Simon. I’ll help you make a batch of toffee.”

He looks at me, his cheeks still flushed like roses. I let my fingers run across them, slowly, feeling their graceful shape.

One of his hands takes mine, and he holds it by the palm, kissing the tip of each finger. Then he stands and follows me out of the room, silently, back to the kitchen where hot water is still pouring through the sink. I dry off his pot and hand him a clean spatula.

Snow takes it. And though there’s not a word said between us, I know by the look in his eyes that he’s starting to see something more, and understands that it’s a matter that’s too delicate to be pressed much further.

When he’s got the butter melted down, I pour sugar into the pot, and I take the upper part of the spatula handle and stir it with him. And while we wait for it to turn gold, I move behind him and kiss his ear. 

"That tickles,” he murmurs.

"I know.”

“It’s annoying.”

“I know.” I smile.

And he breaks into a smile, and laughs, and I do it again. And he smiles and laughs some more.

And I think, as I’m trailing kisses down his neck, that everything just might be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: SIMON**

It’s here. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’ve been cooped up all day in this room, and I can smell Baz’s cooking from down the hallway. He almost never makes anything, but when he does, I know that it’s always going to be something Gordon Ramsay would cry and cheer for, not to mention me. I really do love food.

And he’s been really trying lately. I still feel awful for throwing that tantrum earlier this week, but at least now he’s trying to be more honest. Baz stutters and mumbles a lot more when he’s talking about himself than I would’ve thought, but it reminds me that he’s still human.

That’s one of the things that’s really been bothering him, actually; that he’s still a person, despite being a vampire. I don’t think he’s ever quite accepted it, no matter how much time has passed, and I think that’s one of the reasons why he’s so understanding of how I’m struggling even now to deal with losing my magic.

I can’t imagine feeling like this my whole life without telling anyone. Now I’m starting to see why he built The Great Wall of Baz.

But that’s just it—it’s a wall, and he’s a bully to himself just as much as he is to others, and the wall isn’t doing anything but hiding what’s desecrating on the inside. And I want to see the inside. That’s why I’ve been working so hard on his present, which is nothing more than a love letter—or a poem, depending on what you’d call it. I’m hoping it will make him realize this.

That’s why I’ve been in my room all afternoon trying to finish it. I’m on my last bit of editing—I can feel it on the tip of my tongue—and the scent of ham is making it harder and harder to focus on my word choice or the articulation of the damn thing.

_You are not perfect,_

_but you are good;_

I think of the way the end of his nose angles down, cascading into his cupid’s bow, lips pursed and upturned at the same time, the little birthmark that dots the bottom of his chin. The way his hands run aimlessly through his hair, sweeping it back like wind in wild grass.

_I know why the world becomes_

_lighter when you step into a room:_

I remember that night in the summer, only a week or two after graduation, when we went out driving in his father’s old Jaguar. He had called me as he was zooming down my street, just three minutes away. All I knew was that he had told me to bring a suitcase of clothes, a pair of sunglasses, and my supple self, and we drove and drove and drove until we reached the end of the world—the end of the road at the edge of the country, at least, and then he waved his hands and the car darted off the cliff facing the North Sea, and we spent the week flying through the streets of Paris.

_because whoever is upstairs decided that you_

_would be the boy who defies gravity_

_and reason and all the world’s ruination;_

A few years ago, maybe, it was about February, and it was always really cold. I remember I woke up one night after a bad dream, huddled beneath my blankets, shivering. The fabric was heavier, I noticed; then I heard a soft stroke of a violin, gentle like summer rain. Baz was standing in the half-hung moonlight, a window fully open, playing a warm arrangement of “Clair de lune” into the coldhearted frost, and I realized he had spread his quilt over me and was trying to lure me from fearing to dreaming.

_You are my sun and my moon,_

_the ground I root my toes between,_

_the clouds that keep my head flying–_

It was the middle of summer and we were sitting at home, lounging about on the couch. We’d been watching _Lord of the Rings,_ and he’d snickered when an awfully ugly orc came onscreen, and he paused the movie and pointed and said it looked like me. So we broke into a laughing fit that evolved into wrestling, and then he stopped fighting when I’d finally perched myself on top of him. He sighed and pushed back my hair and told me that I was the prettiest troll he’d ever seen, and I kissed him, and we ended up doing much more than wrestling by the time Frodo had made it to Mordor.

_And you are not perfect,_

_you are not flawless—_

_but, you are whole,_

I remember just the other day, when I woke up early in the morning, and I let him sleep in as I attempted to cook breakfast. I made eggs and bacon and cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting, and it was all perfect until I realized that there was no coffee. He couldn’t have a perfect breakfast without coffee. So I pulled my scarf around my neck and darted to the corner of the street in my pajamas, sped into Starbucks, ordered, and ran home as quickly as I could. When I opened the door, Baz was standing in the kitchen, trying to stifle a smile, and happily kissed the palm of my hand when I handed him his peppermint frappe.

_and you’re my great wide somewhere_

_and it’s the best somewhere_

_anyone could wish to be._

He was climbing in the bookshelves at the Magickal Library, (literally climbing—the shelves rise above the floor and connect through hidden tunnels), and I was hovering around the Diana Wynne Jones section. Right when I had gotten to the part where Sophie had broken into Howl’s castle, Baz jumped down from the literature-filled zenith of the library and ran up to me struggling to hold the stacks of books in his arms. He’d found a signed copy of _Hamlet_ and was practically hovering above the floor, he was so animated. When I asked him what the big deal was, he froze, set the rest of his books on a table, and waved his arms as he recited his favorite soliloquies. When he was done, I clapped, and he grinned at me and murmured, “Words, words, words.”

_And I love you because you are good;_

“Do you see that star?” He asked me once during the summer, pointing above the balcony outside the apartment. “That’s the one I wished on all the time when we were younger, practically praying that I’d get to kiss you one day. And look how well the stars serve the sky, Simon.”

_you are loving, you are whole._

Baz came in late last night, when I was already lounging in bed, scrolling through an article on my phone. He was dressed in nothing but black, which contrasted starkly against his mother-of-pearl skin. His lips were flushed. He’d just hunted. When I asked how it went, he shook his head sadly and threw off his coat, revealing the red-stained white polo shirt he wore underneath. He sat in the shower for at least an hour.

_You’ll be my only, always and always–_

“Simon?”

A light tapping follows and startles me out of my trance. I set down my pen, warm now from my hands, and straighten my back. “Huh?”

“Dinner’s almost ready, love. Go ahead and come on out.”

“Okay. I’ll be out in a sec.”

I hear his light footsteps disappear back to the kitchen, light like shadows. I take a breath and sigh.

It’s now or never, I guess.

So I sign my name in a messy scribble at the bottom of the page, fold it in thirds, and tuck it in a scarlet envelope that I carry with me down the hall. After I hide it in the branches of the tree, I turn and pad into the kitchen.

_and it’s because I love you,_

Baz stands there, smiling, peeling the blue oven mitts off of his hand. “Ready?” He asks, gesturing to the counters around us packed with food.

“To eat?” I scoff, grinning at him. I take my fingers in his and wind them together. “Always.”

_I love you,_

He shakes his head as I lean forward and kiss him.

“You’re ridiculous, Simon.”

“Oh, I know.”

And he chuckles and kisses me back.

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: BAZ**

“Are you ready to exchange?”

He’s just finished washing the dishes, and I’ve just finished putting up leftovers in the freezer. I shoo him away from the sink so I can wash my hands. “Ready to what?”

“To exchange gifts,” Simon says, looking at me eagerly, wiping his damp hands on his old, faded jeans. When he turns around to grab his gift from the tree, I remember why I love those pants so much.

I walk over and give him a cynical look as I dry my hands with a towel. “Simon, you can’t have presents before dessert. That’s untraditional.”

“Come on, already. Let’s just do it.”

“Said the actress to the bishop.”

I get a laugh from him that time, and he leans over to peck my cheek. “Oh, Baz. What an eloquent sense of humor you have.”

“I can’t help what’s true.” I retort sarcastically. He rolls his eyes. Smirking, I shuffle over to our shimmering tree, alive with kaleidoscopic lights between its white branches, and grab my small box from underneath its quarters. Simon sees the gift and waves his red envelope around in the air. 

Like so often before, we size each other up from opposite sides of the room, and exchange weary looks. 

“I’ll open yours first,” I finally say, opening my palm towards him. 

Simon furrows his brows and pulls his hand away. “Uh-uh. I’ve been working on this for too long for it to be blown out of the water. So I get to open yours first.”

“Simon–”

“Baz, I mean it–”

“But you don’t understand–”

“But I _do,”_ he says, and I know he’s right, and he’s got such earnestness in his eyes and I’m weak for it.

So I sigh and shake my head. “Fine. Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I hand him the little box I wrapped in ribbons of gold. 

Simon eagerly takes it and putters over to the old couch, where we take our seats facing each other. His hair is mussed like he’s had his hands in it all day–he must’ve been putting a lot of thought into this, as he combs his head when he’s concentrating–and he does it again now while he’s looking down at my present to him. 

“Shall we play the guessing game?” He asks, grinning eagerly. 

I give him a small smile. “Sure, but you’re not gonna figure it out.”

“I can try. Is it jewelry?”

“Kind of,” I reply, shrugging, “but not really.”

“A bracelet?”

“Nope.”

“Earrings?”

“Simon, you don’t even have pierced ears.”

“If you gave me earrings, I’d pierce them on the spot.”

I laugh. “Does that go for nose rings, too?”

“Yep.”

“Tongue piercings?”

“Perhaps. But it’s a necklace, then?” He asks, fingering a strand of ribbon.

I nod slightly. “Just open it, already.”

He smiles amusedly and pulls the string from the box. As I gather and crumple the wrapping that he tears off, Simon pulls open the lid of the little white jewelry box, and looks inside. 

Upon seeing it for the first time, he blinks. 

“What’s this?” He asks, carefully picking up the jewelry. 

I gesture at the vial. “Think of a spell.”

“A spell?”

“Yep.”

“Really?” He asks confusedly. 

“Yes, Simon,” I reply, prompting him on. “And then open the lid of the bottle.”

His eyebrow is furrowed, and he looks at me wearily. “Why? Baz–”

I take his free hand and squeeze it. He stops talking. 

“Just try it, Simon,” I say softly. “Trust me.”

Sucking in a breath, he holds the bottle tightly and thinks for a moment. Then, popping the latch off with one thumb, Simon says, _**"Let it snow!“**_

Nothing happens. 

He looks back at me, face quickly turning red. “What’s this supposed to be, anyhow? A joke? Because you of all people know well enough that this isn’t funny, Baz—“

I, on the other hand, stare at the bottle confusedly. “No, it was supposed to…”

“Supposed to what, exactly?”

Then a little burst of light escapes the glass. Soon enough, a delicate white particle lands on his nose, melts, and slides down his cheek, chin, onto the couch. 

He gasps, stunned, and gapes at me. 

We look up. 

The white ceiling has been replaced with a few billowing clouds, which gently dust the air with fluffy snow. It falls softly down upon our hands, shoulders, and speckles his messy hair with glittery frost. 

“Holy shit,” he stammers. “Baz, it’s snowing.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Simon starts laughing. “I made it snow. With a spell.” Then, fumbling to hold the bottle properly, he opens the top again and chants louder, _**“Let it snow, let is snow, let it snow!”**_

At this command, the clouds expand above us, and begin shaking sparkling snow above us at a quickening pace. After only a minute or two, the wooden floor is covered with a thick white sheet of the fluff, like in those picturesque Christmas cards we always see in stores.

When I turn away from the surroundings to look at Simon, I find him with him slack-jawed, a hand covering his gaping mouth, eyes glazed over with a thick layer of tears. That’s picturesque enough to last me a lifetime.

“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching forward to wipe his face. 

He takes my hands and pulls me to him, wordlessly, his eyes still big as stars.

“Simon?”

“Baz,” he stutters. “Baz, you–”

“I know,” I say, brushing my hands across his back. 

“It’s so beautiful,” he finally says, and I hear his voice completely crack, and he’s crying and kind of laughing and making me start to do the same. “Holy fucking shit, Baz.”

“I know,” I say one last time, smiling, moving to wipe his eyes. He takes my hand and kisses the inside of my palm. It’s so warm. Then he shakes his head and leans forward and kisses me. 

“You fucker,” he mumbles against my lips, “you absolute shit.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say. 

And he sniffs and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you,” he says. “Where the hell did you get this?”

“I have connections.”

“Where? In high heaven?” He breathes, still laughing. And there’s snow still falling, with little flurries flying all around the room, and he turns his palms up and starts trying to collect it in his hands. He’s crying so much that I worry that icicles are going to form off of his chin, but is giggling so much that I think he’s going to turn back into a child.

After a minute of watching him, I spell his coat and scarf out from the bedroom and around his body, and he gets up and runs around in the small blizzard like he’s never seen such a thing before. Then he’s popping the bottle over and over, chirping little spells like, _**“Winter is coming!”**_ to make his breath show up like bursts of smoke, and _**“At last I see the light!”**_ to illuminate all the unlit candles and bulbs in the room. It’s like watching a young wizard get their first wand, and seeing them marvel at the possibilities within their fingertips.

Meanwhile, I spell the record player on in the corner. Simon laughs and starts to dance, arms waving around his sides, and wraps a sparking strand of tinsel around his neck like a boa. (I get the feeling that he’s wanted to do that for a while now.) On top of that, he starts screaming happily along to whatever song comes on. And when he’s performed “Feliz Navidad” and Mariah Carey’s little bit, he stops to take a breath and looks at me.

“What are you watching, vampire?”

“An excited, childish, easily-amused dork flailing wildly about the room. As always.”

“Because you’ve given me the wind beneath my wings,” he replies, holding out his hands. “Now dance with me.”

I find myself smiling shamelessly back at him, my face propped up on my knuckles. “It’s dangerous to dance in an ice storm, Simon, being someone as reckless as you.”

“I don’t care,” Snow laughs. He slides over and grabs my fingers, pulling me out of my seat, and begins spinning me around to an old Andy Williams ballad. I must’ve put on an oldies album in the queue by accident, but it doesn’t matter; not even his off-key butchering of a perfectly good carol can even put me off of the sparkle in his eyes. I’m even laughing fairly hard by the end of it.

And then that old Nat King Cole one starts: the one about chestnuts and Jack Frost and simple phrases. Simon exhales and leans his head against my shoulder, listening closely as I hum along, and we sway back and forth under the falling snowflakes. I feel like a couple out of an old family movie, sweaters and fireplace and all.

“So you like your present?” I eventually ask.

“I love it, Baz,” Simon says, turning his head slightly to kiss my jaw. “I think it’s the best gift I’ve ever been given. Granted, there’s not a lot to beat, but it still beats them all.”

“I’m glad,” I say. “Now you can use magic again. Maybe not to the extent that you once did, but still.”

Simon nods and hums, his feet absently knocking against mine in his awkward shuffle. “I can spell my own wings away.”

“I don’t see why you always do that,” I murmur. “They make you look like a badass.”

“I think they make me look like Smaug.”

“Same difference.”

And he laughs and sniffs and shakes his head, sparkling now like champagne. “You’re too good.”

“Am I?” I smirk.

“Definitely.” He grins and brings his hands gently to hold my face, then starts kissing me slowly, moving the same way caramel melts over a fire. I let my arms fall from his shoulders down to his waist. He pulls himself closer to me.

Then, as the song starts to end, Simon pushes me back towards the couch, his legs dancing us backwards. Soon enough he’s lying on top of me, kissing me, slowly running his fingers over my face. As I start to skim the skin under his waistband, he starts to comb my hair back, all to the slow rhythm of the jazz ballad.

When the last cadence falls, I pull out my wand and spell the song on repeat. Simon hums and pulls my sweatshirt up and over my head, and looks at my pale chest.

“What?” I ask, peering up at him.

“Nothing. You just look like the snow.”

“My ass feels just about as frozen, too, I can assure you.”

Simon raises his eyebrows. “Do we need to move back to the bedroom?”

“No,” I say, reaching up and pulling him forward. “Just hurry up and get down here, Lavaboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: SIMON**

He’s alive, all over. I see goosebumps dancing across his arms. 

He’s beneath me on the couch, my hands propping my body above his. Our skin feels smooth against each other in all the places it touches. I can taste diamonds on his breath. 

Every time, I think that this is must be what it’s like to kiss the moon.

**BAZ**

It’s too much. So much. I want him so much. He’s reaching for me. I let myself be caught. Over and over and over. I’ll give my body and my magic and my heart and my word and I’ll give it all to him until time quits. 

His hands grasp my shoulders, fingernails digging like he’s trying to burrow himself within me, where he can grow and I will let him. I will always let him. He keeps kissing me here, on my neck, where I have two scars. Two stupid, persistent, detestably beautiful scars. A scar named Baz and another named Simon, and together they match perfectly, and so they keep and so we live and dance and hold and reach and love and I love him, I love him I love him _I love him._

He just might not know it yet, dense as he his.

**SIMON**

I fall onto the cushion beside Baz. The air is hot against his skin, which is warm now wherever I touch it.

Baz lets out a long, slow sigh, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. Then he pulls me over to him, closer, as if he’s still cold, and he can’t get close enough to the fire. 

“I want to take a shower,” he murmurs after a while. I notice that his breathing is still somewhat heavy, and there’s a line of sweat near his brow. I kiss it off. It tastes like I’ve always imagined the sea would. 

“Then go. I’ll clean this up and take one after you.”

A rare, nearly serene smile captures his face. “You are absolutely perfect, Simon Snow.”

“I am?”

This is one of those few occasions when Baz goes in for the kiss instead of me, and he presses almost too hard but not too much. 

“You are,” he murmurs, playing with my hair. 

Somehow, I know I’m finally seeing his true self–and he’s letting me.

And it’s the lovely color of his halcyon grey eyes that makes me wonder how I came to be the luckiest guy in the world. 

He sighs and stands up, pressing a kiss against my forehead before he gathers up his wet clothes, soggy now from the snow. “I’ll be out in a bit.”

When I hear the door to the bathroom close, I dig the envelope we had forgotten out from between the cushions, and try to flatten its fold corners down. I see the bottle around my neck and frown down at Baz’s gift.

“Make him happy,” I murmur to the envelope. I even pop the top open of the bottle and say it again with magic, though I don’t think it made a difference in any way. Then I tiptoe back to the bedroom and set the gift on his pillow, letting it rest there as I go make angels in the snow fluttering about the house.

After a good twenty minutes of rolling around, Baz steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looks down at me and my snow-covered jacket, unimpressed.

“You’re so good at cleaning, Simon.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head and fights a smile. “Well, as least I feel—“

 _ **“Clean as a whistle!”**_ I chime, popping the bottle. And the snow disappears as soon as it came, leaving only the airy chill behind in the room, and I notice Baz trying to watch me when I’m not looking.

I kiss his cheek and skirt past him into the bathroom. “I left your present on the bed. I’ll be out in a bit—don’t fall asleep without me.”

**BAZ**

Simon comes in some time later, after I’ve gotten dressed, opened his present, and have started to doze off on my side of the bed. It’s cold and I’m huddled beneath the blankets, breathing peacefully in a trance somewhere between rest and consciousness. 

It was a poem. Simon Snow wrote me a poem for Christmas, and I think it’s better than John Keats or Robert Frost or William Shakespeare ever wished poetry could be.

I know Simon’s in the room the second he steps in. It’s hard not to smell his snickerdoodle-scented shampoo–especially when you like it as much as I do. And you’re a vampire with a keen sense of smell. What’s even better is how he smells nothing of smoke and tobacco anymore.

“Are you sleeping?” He asks quietly.

I give him no reply, instead remaining idle in my same position. Playing dead. Or dead undead. Or dead undead who might possibly not be dead at all–not with that sunshine boy so close. It takes a great deal of willpower not to open my eyes and pull his warm body down into the bed on top of me again and start the cycle all over. 

But when I peer at him through my eyelashes, I see his hair clipped sharply around the edges, a boundless bushel of curls spilling out of the top. He’s trimmed it, but left most of the length; I think he’s figured out by now that I like it long so I can run my hands through it. It’s as if I’m combing my fingers through ribbons on top of a gift. (Kind of sums up his existence, honestly.)

I notice a dampness soaking the back of his pajama shirt. A dark stain of water pools around the collar and trickles down, perhaps unawarely, into the small of his back, the plains I let my hands storm across when he presses himself against me. I can imagine how cold he feels, especially considering how chilly I am. And it’s wintertime. And he’s his skinny self. Snowflakes aren’t falling inside the house anymore, but their icy breaths still trickle into the room despite the furnace. Right now, he probably needs three layers of fuzzy woolen slippers, and I’m seriously considering grabbing some out of my drawer, pinning him down, and forcing them over his peach-pink toes after I kiss every single one. 

Despite my fidgeting, though, he buys the act. He reaches back, grasping the ends of his shirt, and spends a few seconds finagling out of the sleeves before throwing the clothing onto the floor. (Because he’s too lazy to turn it back right-side out, of course.) He wears nothing else but old, raggedy flannel pants, stained with the colors of the walls we painted: forest green in the kitchen, butter yellow in his study, blue fire in my studio, rich burgundy in this bedroom, where his skin shines gold against the hue. An entire buttock Bunce purple from when we painted her bed and bath, when he pissed me off by painting a messy heart on the shirt he’d given me for my birthday, when I pushed him up against the wet paint and he pulled the shirt off my back–among other things. Least to say, it took about a week to finally get the stuff off all our skin.

But still. I’m not going to complain. He already seems much more free and comfortable, and he stretches, arching his strong back. His wings involuntarily expand, and the reddish-brown scales softly glow in the light like little rubies cast into plates of armor. 

He climbs into bed beside me. I see thin tendrils of muscles clenching in his arms, the skin straining on his back as he lays down; he’s so near I can almost taste the soap on his skin. (Fuck him. Bless him.) 

_Still._ I continue to play possum as Simon cozies his body near mine, leaving only an inch or two of space between us, trying to find comfort in my meager warmth, whatever that’s worth–and probably not much, considering how I'm dead. And for a couple minutes he works to untangle the fluffy comforter from around my sleepy limbs and spreads it across the both of us. Like my father never did, and my mother used to. Next, he gently raises my head, like usual, and fluffs my pillow before setting it back in place. Then, after he turns off the bedside lamp, I hear the small pop of the magic bottle’s lid and a gentle murmur. _**“Twinkle, twinkle little star.”**_

A sea of small lights appear on the ceiling, floating high above us. I suspect that if the light were on, we’d see no ceiling at all, and instead a window to the sky. That spell has always been one of his favorites.

“Sweet dreams, Baz.” Snow murmurs, touching my face. Running his fire fingers all over my glacial cheeks. “I love you.”

After giving me a quick kiss, he turns onto his side, sighs, and rests his head in front of me on his pillow. 

My eyes fly open. I stare, without a word in my mind, at the back of his neck. 

He said he loves me. 

_Loves._

Silently, I reach over his body and tuck my arms around his waist, pulling him firmly against my torso. His soft face turns up to look at me and I kiss it, letting my eyes open and smoothing his honey hair back from his forehead. 

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“You should know something,” I murmur. I can see his face glowing in the gentle starlight.

His expression turns a bit worrisome, and he rolls over to look at me. “What is it?”

“Okay,” I start, giving myself a moment. “I don’t say it a lot, because it’s another one of those things that should go poetically unsaid, mostly because it’s as true as I know truth to be and secrets like that should be _kept_ secret." 

His eyebrow furrows. "Okay? So?”

I bring my eyes up to his and hold his gaze. 

“I love you, too, Simon Snow.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until a large tear plops onto his face and skirts down his cheek. 

For a long second he’s motionless, like he never heard the words at all, and I grow steadily more nervous by the second. But then a familiar coyness lights his eyes. “Baz–”

“Don’t push it,” I warn, sniffing. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he murmurs. Then he reaches up to wipe my eyes with both thumbs. “I was just going to say that I already know.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, doubtful, trying (and failing) to recover myself. 

“Yes.”

“How?”

He presses his speckled nose against my neck. “I just do, sweetheart. Boyfriend’s intuition." 

A smile still hangs on his lips, and he runs his warm fingers across the skin on my chest. Like I’m an ancient relic, or a valuable statue by an old artist of Classical times. 

I love it. I love how, to him, I’m never old. Or a hassle. I am an adventure, grand and rich and full of life in lieu of my losses. 

I’m his _sweetheart._

Nobody else thinks of me that way. Nobody except for Simon, who gets what it’s like to only have half a life in the first place, and can find beauty in its incompleteness despite that. 

Nobody except for dense, oblivious Simon Snow, who somehow understands. 

I’m crying harder now, almost sobbing, and Simon’s smiling and pulling me closer to him. He knows he’s done it. Finally cracked me. And it shows in the way he’s saying both nothing and everything and holding me despite my trembling chest.

"I love you, Basilton,” he repeats, slowly, accenting each word. And I cry harder. And he says it again and again until I’m clutching his soft back with tense hands, wailing like a child. I feel like I’m going to die right here and disappear when he lets go. 

He knows it, too. So he holds and holds and holds. 

When I’ve started to peter out of tears, several minutes later, I bring my hand to grasp the back of his neck and begin kissing his cheeks, nose, forehead, the crown of his head. He rolls over, chest resting on top of mine. I reach up and kiss his lips, sighing slowly, the air rising like my breath has no weight.

“So I’m guessing you liked your present, too?” he asks.

“I’m gonna have it framed, and hang it in my dorm room, and in a bit I’ll get it tattooed on my ass, and in a decade or so I’ll read it to our children at night.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I’ll say.” I sigh, snuggling my skin closer against his. “Your poetry has struck a chord in me, Simon Snow.”

“Has it?”

“Completely.”

And after a bit longer, exhaustion finally starts tugging heavily at my eyes. I break away from his mouth, where I had started kissing him again, wrapping his chest in both arms, and rest my head below his chin. He curls up around me and occupies the vacancies I can’t fill. Makes me warm again. I feel him playing in my hair, softly combing through tangled little strands, and gently brushing his palm under my swollen eyes. 

“Baz.”

“Huh?”

“I feel your heartbeat.”

“So?”

“I told you that you aren’t dead.” I can hear a smile on his lips. 

“Hardly,” I murmur. “With you around.”

A short, sweet laugh escapes him. I sigh, and we begin to drift off into sleep. Slowly. Warmly. Until there’s nothing but peace and quiet. 

Simon Snow has finally killed me. 

And I’m not angry in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


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